Trickshots
by Paintastics
Summary: A well-placed bullet will bring down even the worlds greatest consulting Detective.


**A/N: Click.**

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"Holmes!" The name ripped from my throat as I watched the great detective slam against the wall. I sharply turned to face the man who shot him, and saw that he, too, had been hit.

I rushed towards my friend in an instant, but was stopped as he grunted between gasps of pain, "Watson! The gun-- get the gun!!"

Turning round, I leaped towards our criminal, kicking away the devilish weapon which shot my friend. The man lay face down, a small trail of blood at his side where Holmes' bullet had struck. It sent me into a blinded rage as I looked upon the man before me. My foot was about to come crashing down upon his skull when I heard the labored breaths from behind me.

I turned, greeted by the sight of Sherlock Holmes clutching his shoulder and bracing himself against the wall. I kneeled down in front of him.

"Holmes." I whispered. His head lolled to the side, eyes half-lidded and in a dreamy state. My heart turned to lead as I saw the blood drip out the corner of his mouth. He smiled at the sound of my voice.

"Watson," his voice was low as he tried to cover the pain, "did you get the gun?"

"It's alright, Holmes, he won't harm anyone." I gently removed his hand from his shoulder to examine the wound. "I'm going to cut away your coat, I need to see how bad it is. Can you move your arm?" he brought up his good one and rested his hand on my shoulder.

"Yes," he said softly. I smiled a mournful smile at this gesture as I looked upon my friend.

"Very good, Holmes." Tears were beginning to sting my eyes, but I help them back. I could cry later, after I treated his wound and we were back at Baker Street.

With my knife, I cut away his coat and gently peeled back the sleeve. Holmes winced as I brushed past the bullet and parted the remaining clothes covering it. It was an ugly sight. Flesh was torn and deep red blood soaked the surrounding clothing. It was disturbing how quickly my own hands were covered by it.

"It's pretty nasty, Holmes, and you've lost a lot of blood but it's really not so bad. I don't have the proper tools with me, so I'll have to remove the bullet later."

"I'm afraid, my dear Watson" he rasped, "that this is where we must part ways." I smiled and brushed the hair off his forehead. "It's not so bad, old man. Worse that can happen is that we can't remove the bullet. You'll become a cripple, much like myself, but as you can see I get along just fine. It's only a shoulder wound."

He gave a mirthless laugh. "Oh, I wouldn't be so sure about that."

That being said, he slowly pulled away the other side of his coat to reveal a second bloody mess upon his torso. My eyes widened in horror at the sight.

"Holmes! But-- how?!"

He tried to cover it, but my hands instantly had it revealed again. In a weak response, he said, "It would appear that our criminal has q-quite the trick shot."

"Oh, Holmes..." I couldn't help the dismal tones in my voice as tears began to run down my cheek. Feebly, with his good arm, he grasped my hand and gave a reassuring squeeze.

"Do not fret, my dear, as I've said to you before. My life has not been wasted, as I am satisfied with the work that I have done. I can step away now, completely happy." All this was said between pained gasps.

"N-no. Don't speak like that. I'm going to save you." I choked out.

"You already have. Thank you, Watson. You are the only thing I regret leaving behind." he smiled, "You've made it all worth while." I whimpered at this. Holmes was accepting his death, as I tried so desperately to convince him otherwise. I wouldn't give up. I wasn't about to let the greatest man in the world die at the hands of some lowly criminal. Not that I shouldn't have expected it to have happened to one or the both of us; doing the things we do and pursuing the people we pursue. It was bound to happen eventually.

But if Holmes were to die _again_, leaving me, I'm not sure I could survive it a second time.

I was about to tell him as much, when an explosion shattered the silence as another gun shot fired. My head snapped back at the noise, though in the same instant I felt a hot twisting impact in my back. I was propelled forward, falling into Holmes' lap. It took all my strength to look behind me.

There lay our criminal, holding a shaking gun in his hands before it loudly clanked to the floor. I was about to scream at him, but found that my voice was lost. I merely watched as his expression slackened and his head fell to the floor. Dead. I gave a muffled shout as my arms gave out and I collapsed.

"I-I told you to... remove his gun."

I couldn't speak, the burst I felt within my body was to agonizing. Curses of all sorts flew through my mind. Curses for being so stupid and careless, curses for allowing my best friend to be shot, curses for not following his directions to the letter, curses for not being able to save either of us....

I could feel Holmes' arms wrap around my shoulders as I did my best to hold him round the waist. We were silent in our embrace. I tried to stifle the cries I so wanted to utter, and so tried to concentrate on the slow, haggard breathing of my friend.

"Watson... do you remember t-the case of Charles Augustus Milverton?"

I nodded as best I could.

"When I said it'd be amusing to share the same cell, should we be caught? Well... I think-- I think this is a good way to go."

I hugged him harder. I could hear in his voice that it was heavy with emotion, but not once had I heard tears. That only provoked mine to flow faster.

"Holmes, i-it's been a great pleasure meeting you in this life..." I was able to say.

"And an even greater one knowing you, my dear Watson."

Warmth flooded through the pain at this. I didn't know how were were going to miraculously survive this, and so I began to accept the inevitable. My life had been adventurous; through Holmes I had traveled round the world, experienced things I never thought I'd get to see, I met my wife, and many other illustrious people. So many, all this greatness made possible thanks to good old Stamford bringing us together. I smiled at this reflection, when I suddenly felt my friend's chest shutter. There was silence. I swallowed, as the cold question came upon me. Was it possible that I was now laying atop the body of my _dead_ friend?

"H-holmes?" I called out.

There was no answer. Panic and emotions I couldn't even begin to describe overtook me. Dear God, he cannot be dead! Sherlock Holmes simply cannot be dead.... My eyes squeezed shut. If my friend was to be torn from this world, than I was ready for Death to take me as well. However, a soft vibration beneath my head halted the fantasy.

"Don't worry, Watson, I havn't left you yet." He reassured soothingly.

"Thank God..." I cried in a hoarse whisper, more to myself than to him. His fingers lightly brushed against my back.

"I believe it goes, _Meeting you was fate, becoming your friend was a choice, but falling in love with you I had no control over_." he chuckled. "H-how the fates work, so generous and yet so cruel. They mystify me."

"My dear Holmes..." If only he had said as much earlier. That death would be required before my good friend would open up and confined in me!

Blood from my mouth was beginning to flow freely onto his waistcoat, and for whatever reason, I found myself regretting the unfortunate stain I was bringing upon his clothing. It would never wash out. I had also hoped that the bullet hadn't passed through me and lodged its self into him.

"You know," I started, "They say the first thing to go, when a person is dying, is their sight. The last, is their hearing." I commented, as my vision was nearly gone.

Holmes gave a dry chuckle. "Really? Hum. I can't see a damned thing."

I smiled. "Holmes. Will you sing to me?"

There was a pause. God damn every moment of silence, for each could mean the robbery of my friend's life. You can imagine that I was immensely relieved at the sound of his voice.

"If you will sing along with me. I cannot see you, but... I'd like to step away hearing your voice. Just so I know I am not alone."

"Your silence would utterly undo me."

"As yours will to me."

My lids felt like lead as the pain and emotions exhausted me. Holmes began, in a soft, remarkably calm tone, to sweetly hum one of my favorite songs. Given my state at the time, I cannot for the life of me remember which it was. All I do remember, was joining in and singing along side my beloved detective, our voices syncing perfectly together until my mind grew dull and I sunk into the welcoming arms of sleep. Holmes' voice was the last thing I heard.

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I awoke a few days later in the hospital. The metallic taste of dried blood and chemicals at the back of my throat indicated as much.

As my eyes opened, they were warmly greeted by the sun's beautiful beams of light which shown brightly through my windows. I could feel the corners of my mouth quirk up in a smile.

"You're awake!" came an excited shout from my right. Still smiling, my head lazily fell towards the source of the noise.

There, sitting beside my bed with a blanket over his knees, sat Sherlock Holmes.

"You're alive!" I cried without restraint.

He chuckled at my outburst. "Yes, my dear Watson, we have somehow managed to evade Death once again! How we do it time and time again, I can never figure out." His dark brows furrowed in thought at this before his eyes shifted in my direction. A broad grin broke upon his face.

Holmes is going to be most displeased when he sees that I wrote this, but I could never forgive myself for omitting it. In that moment, as the light shown through his ruffled hair and playfully bounced off the white linens surrounding him, that brilliant smile and that much loved twinkle in his eye showing every evidence of being alive, he looked purely angelic.

"Watson, I'm afraid no professional would ever hire you as a singer. You stepped off stage before the lights went out."

"You have my apologies for my early retirement, but I thank you for holding my hand going into that bizarre plane of existence. Perhaps that is what saved me?"

"Perhaps. Perhaps it did. However, singing with two bullets in ones chest and blood in ones throat, I do not plan to ever again sing to the dying if I am myself partaking in that particular activity."

I smiled, not having a clever enough answer.

He returned my smile, replying, "Well Watson, let us kick this nasty habit and dabble in some less morbid ones, shall we? There is more I'd like to do before devoting all my time to it."

I nodded before tearing my gaze away from my friend and sinking heavily into my pillows, closing my eyes.

"Oh, I'm sure I can handle that."

There was silence for a few moments and I found myself on the brink of sleep when I felt a warm hand on my shoulder.

"I must be honest with you Watson. You will probably think me selfish, but I was sickened to discover that I was actually a bit glad when that second shot had you fall into my lap. I thought to myself how wonderful it was that I wasn't going to be dying alone, and that you and I both were going to meet our makers together." He paused before meeting my eyes and regarding me with a guilty expression. I could see how he'd think I would find this confession disturbing, but I didn't, as I myself held similar thoughts at the time.

"Well, Holmes--" he held up a hand.

"No, no. Let me finish. I didn't feel so bad, not as bad as I probably should have anyway, but nonetheless, I saw the look which passed over your features before the shot rang out, and I fooled myself into believing that you would rather die as well then go through the torture of survivor's guilt. Though I would never wish death upon my one true and loving friend, I also wasn't as distraught as I should have been. Now, Watson, you may slap me across the face or whatever you wish. I think my selfish thoughts deserve as much."

"There are other times in which I wish you'd've offered me the opportunity, but now is not one of them. As always, you deduced correctly. I didn't think I could survive your death a second time, and though I do not wish to die, I was willing to do so if it meant living without you."

His face fell at this as he bowed his head. In our weakened state, it wasn't good to for either of us to be awake for too long. Deciding that exhaustion may make Holmes more emotional than he'd intended, I decided to tell him that we could finish our conversation at a later time.

He sighed, sinking back into his chair.

"You're quite the talker when you're dying, Watson, and... well I suppose I wanted to thank you for it."

"Doctors always talk to their patients when the patient is most adverse to conversation. I'm glad I could help."

"Good old Watson."

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**Either one of two things can be happening here:**

**1)Everything here is true.**

**Or**

**2)Watson is delirious in death. He imagines this final scene when in reality, he is bleeding to death over the body of a dead Holmes. **

**I can't decide, but I do prefer the happy ending. But, you know.... **

**And yes, I did choose dialogue over medical accuracy. :D**


End file.
